


What's My Age Again?

by Armygirl0604



Series: Family Reunion [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, BAMF Scott, Babysitting, Based on a Tumblr Post, Child Stiles, Cuddly Derek, De-Aged Stiles, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Eventual Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Kid Fic, Kid!Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nogitsune Trauma, PTSD Stiles, Post Nogitsune, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Scott, Sick Stiles, deaton ruins everything, derek is not a pervert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armygirl0604/pseuds/Armygirl0604
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did it occur to you,” Scott said through gritted teeth as he dug his phone out of his pocket and stared at his best friend’s unconscious form, “that I’m the one who has to explain all of this to your dad?” He tapped the first button on his speed dial and waited for his mom’s voice. “Hey mom,” he said when she’d answered, “do we still have any of my old clothes from, like, I don’t know…maybe kindergarten?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Among the Sticks and Leaves They Find Him (pt 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a comment by eeames on Tumblr about different de-aged Stiles interactions with the pack.

The worst part is that Scott can’t even be mad at him for doing it.

Because he understands. Kind of.

Actually, he doesn't because who the hell decided to let Stiles out in the forest at night by himself anyways? _Why wasn't somebody on Stiles-Watch?_ That was unfair, though, because Stiles was a sneak-master. If he could get around the sheriff for 17 years, he could get past Isaac with ease, werewolf or not. Stiles had always done what he wanted and thrown caution and the concerns of others to the wind. Stiles, in short, was reckless.

He was also desperate and that one Scott puts on himself because he’d known, in all truth. Stiles is his best friend and so _of-fucking-course_ Scott had known that he wasn’t coping. None of them were, but of course Stiles had it the worst. Of course he did because he remembered. He had been the one with the nogitsune inside his head and he remembered every ache and pain that the monster had fed on. He remembered the taste, he’d once told Scott after too many cans of RedBull and too little sleep and too much Call of Duty: Black Ops. He remembered that it had been a texture he’d never experienced before. Like sucking down something smooth but jagged. It hurt to consume but the hurt gave the nogitsune life and the pain had tasted the way his mom’s hospital room had smelled. Then Stiles’s hands had begun to tremble violently and Scott had gripped them tight to stop the motion. They’d counted Stiles’s fingers together, one by one. Then Scott’s fingers, and then Stiles had picked up a discarded homework assignment and begun to read about the affect of public media on the American voting system in a voice that sounded far away and confused. And when he couldn’t read anymore and his hands still wouldn’t stop shaking, Scott had finished the essay for him, holding the paper where they could both see it and letting Stiles follow along quietly until he knew every word was an actual word and his breathing had returned to something that wasn’t reminiscent of Scott’s asthma attacks. So yes, Scott had known. He just hadn’t known that Stiles was capable of going to such extremes as _throwing himself off a damn cliff “because magic.”_ Hell, Scott wasn’t even sure where he got the spell or how he learned to summon the fae or how Stiles was even capable of doing the spell. And he didn’t even want to think about the fact that Stiles clearly had not thought his plan through.

“Did it occur to you,” he says through gritted teeth as he digs his phone out of his pocket and stares at his best friend’s unconscious form, “that I’m the one who has to explain all of this to your dad?” He taps the first button on his speed dial and waits for his mom’s voice. “Hey mom,” he says when she answers, “do we still have any of my old clothes from, like, I don’t know…maybe kindergarten?”

* * *

 

                The first word on his lips when he woke up would be indecipherable to almost anyone, but Scott translates it easily to Stiles calling out for his best friend in terror. The word rips him in two and he reaches out and scoops the four year old incarnation of his best friend into his lap and holds him there, rocking him and shushing him among the sticks and dead leaves of the forest. Stiles is so small and Scott tries to remember if Stiles was every actually that small and decides that he must have been because he is now. Stiles pushes his hands against Scott at first, terrified, but then he opens his eyes and puts his tiny hands on Scott’s cheeks and blubbers, _“Scott!”_ and throws his arms around Scott’s neck. Scott cradles him closer, waiting for the tears to subside. They do, eventually, and Stiles’s head droops against Scott’s neck. Only then, when he’s fast asleep and Scott is sure that Stiles is safe and nothing magical is going to happen if he touches him, does he gather up Stiles’s clothes-aside from the t-shirt that was still draped over his tiny frame like an oversized nightshirt- in his free hand and holds Stiles against his chest with the other arm and carries the toddler to his powder blue jeep. Scott sets the sleeping Stiles inside and gets in on the driver’s side and doesn’t consider for a second the fact that Stiles trusts literally no one to drive his baby because it’s Stiles’s fault in the first place.

                Stiles cuddles into Scott’s side, resting his head on Scott’s thigh and mumbling under his breath in his sleep. Scott idly drops his hand onto Stiles’s head for a moment and ruffles his hair before he remembers that he’s going to have to explain the ordeal to the sheriff and gulps nervously. Fighting the supernatural? Piece of cake. Talking to a parent about their child’s wellbeing? He’d rather face the seven circles of hell.

                The road out of the forest is bumpy but Stiles doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. Scott can’t help but be a tiny bit jealous because he hasn’t gotten any sleep in two days, now. The first night he’d been up on patrol, the second because Isaac had spent the night wide awake and crying and even if he hadn’t woken Scott up, Scott probably would have woken up from dreams of holding his dead first love in his arms and cried his way to dawn anyway. And what small amount of rest over the weekend he might have gotten is now thoroughly shot to hell by the child clinging to his jeans-clad hip with one clenched fist.

                They hit every red light possible on the way to the Stilinski house but it still isn’t enough of a delay to make Scott feel any more prepared for what he’s about to have to do. He scoops Stiles up and carries him to the door, leaving his clothes in the jeep. It’s not as if Stiles can use them anyway. The sheriff’s car is parked out front and Scott prays he isn’t going to get shot for this as he raps on the door.

                It opens to the sheriff halfway out of his uniform. His jacket is gone and he’s in sweatpants with the shirt partly undone, but he still flings the door open and says, “Where’s Sti-“

                Scott cringes when the sheriff freezes and follows the man’s gaze to the toddler he’s holding to his chest. “He’s fine,” he says immediately. “Just…well. But he’s fine. Not hurt or anything.”

                The sheriff reaches out and takes Stiles from Scott without a word. The transfer is what finally wakes Stiles and the four year old stirs and blinks his sleepy eyes at his father and best friend. “Daddy?” he says like it’s a question.

                The sheriff nods and holds Stiles closer. “It’s okay, son. You’re okay.” Stiles’s eyelashes-which Scott somehow finds the time to notice are _insanely long_ \- sweep across his cheeks and he’s gone again, fast asleep and cuddling into his father’s shoulder. The sheriff gestures for Scott to follow him into the house and they sit in the living room while Scott explains what few details he knows: that Isaac called to tell him that Stiles was gone, that he’d tracked him into the woods and found him making a deal with a huddle of faeries, pauses to explain that faeries are real but old and rare and _no, he’s not sure how Stiles knew about them but it’s Stiles, after all_ , and how Stiles had pitched himself off a cliff and Scott had found him unharmed and curled up in his t-shirt at the bottom, de-aged 13 years. And when he’s drained of words the sheriff sends him home, making a deal that _yes he can come back, but he needs to get a change of clothes at the very least and could he please bring Melissa because someone needs to check Stiles over and make sure he’s actually whole and healthy_ , and Scott finds out what a panic attack feels like when he hears a knock on the door and opens it to find his dead girlfriend standing on the doorstep.  


	2. Kind of Like a Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces slide into place, but provide no answers. Scott tries to mind and can't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I wasn't going to post the second chapter today but there's been enough activity that I figured why not? No extra warnings for this chapter, unless you have something against the Avengers. Then all the warnings.

                He’s hyperventilating and he knows it. He tries to suck in a breath, fails, and instead just backs away and shakes his head like an idiot because it’s not possible for her to be there. _It’s not possible._

                Allison puts her hands up in the universal “we come in peace” gesture but it doesn’t help. “Scott, let me explain,” she begs. Then she stops and frowns. “Actually, wait, I can’t explain. I mean, not really. But I can try. Um, so I was dead, right?”

                Scott nods numbly. “Yeah,” he says and starts to catch his breath and then loses it again. “You were.”

                Allison looks around helplessly and asks, “Can I come in?” Scott stands aside and she makes her way to the living room. He watches her as she walks. She’s got the same walk: that proud but contained gait and the way she holds her head high even though her face tells him she’s unsure about the situation. She’s not wearing the clothes she died in, either. Or even the clothes from her funeral. She’s wearing a gauzy white sundress that ripples around her kneecaps like water. Every blemish of life is gone: there are no scars marring her skin. She has no cuts or bruises or anything to mark her as alive and human, but she’s still standing in his living room like she never left.

When she’s sitting on the sofa, she continues. “I was dead. I remember dying. I remember the oni demon and you and-” She stops midsentence. “Stiles, is Stiles okay? And Lydia? And-what happened to-“

Scott shushes her. “Stiles is fine,” he says. “And Lydia and Isaac and your father. You and Aidan were the only ones who didn’t make it.” It hurts to say, even though she’s sitting in front of him. And that’s when Scott decides he has more important things to worry about than _how_ Allison is sitting there. He tugs her forward and instead makes a promise to himself that he’s never going to let her go again.

It takes Allison a few moments to hug him back. When she does, they’re both crying and she’s apologizing. “Why are _you_ sorry?” Scott asks. “I’m the one who let you get killed.”

Allison shakes her head and pulls away. “That’s not your fault,” she begins, but Scott won’t let her finish.

“I should have saved you,” he insists, and she puts her hands over his mouth. Instead of pulling away, he kisses her fingers.

“Shh,” she says. “I’m back. I don’t know how, but I’m back.”

“I love you,” he says to her fingerprints.

She pulls her hand away from his lips and replaces it with her mouth. And when she does it’s like all the tension leaves his body. Like he can finally breathe again. Like the world is finally right. The part of him that is more wolf than man relaxes and the coiled pain he’s been clamping down on since that god-awful night dissolves and he finally starts to feel human again. He has his mate and that’s all that matters to him.

Except there’s still Stiles.

He pulls his mouth away from hers with regret. “Wait, so how did you get here?”

Allison shakes her head. “I don’t know. The spirit world isn’t only like what we saw from the Nemeton. It’s got good places, too, and I was there, waiting for the people I loved in life to join me.” She pauses and it’s with this tiny nostalgic smile that makes Scott’s gut twist. He vows that the next time she goes there, it will be with gray hair and he’ll be just half a step behind her. “And then this woman appeared. She had this hair…this beautiful hair…and she told me that someone had paid the price and I had to go with her. She brought me to the edge of a cliff in a forest and we met a little boy. He told me I had to come home and held my hand and we jumped off. I remember I wasn’t scared because I was already dead but jumping felt like hitting ice water after sitting in the sun. And then I woke up at Oak Creek, alive and alone.”

                “What was the price? Did she tell you?” Scott asks, because that feels like vital information.

                Allison shakes her head. “No. Why?”

He tells her the same story he told the sheriff, minus having to explain that faeries are, in fact, real. She rolls her eyes when he talks about Stiles escaping Isaac and he spills more details than he expected to, like how Stiles had cried and reeked of terror and loss and Scott had held him until it faded and how he had actually thought Stiles was going to kill himself at first when he saw him step off the edge of the cliff. Together, they start to put together some of the pieces. Or at least an idea of what the pieces might be as a whole.

                “Can that be done?” Allison asks. “Can you make a deal to de-age so someone else comes back?”

                “Deaton,” Scott says because of course it’s the answer. “We can ask him later. Right now, I need to go check on Stiles and you need to go see your dad.”

                Something lights up in Allison’s eyes and she nods. Scott drops her off in Stiles’s jeep, since he’d borrowed it to get back home anyway, and drives away before she encounters Chris because it’s not his business what transpires between her and her father. He picks up Melissa at the hospital and neglects to mention Allison’s return because it’s just one more thing to lay on her and right now he’s pretty sure she’d snap if he put anything else on her.

                As they drive, he watches her hands flutter nervously and reaches over to place his palm across her wrists. “Mom,” he says, not looking away from the road, “it’s going to be okay. Stiles is okay.” That doesn’t stop her from flinging herself out of the jeep when they get to back to the Stilinski house.

                Stiles is curled up on the couch, swaddled a Batman throw blanket that Scott hasn’t seen in years. He’s sucking his thumb and his hair is a mess of fly-aways, but he looks unharmed and safe, and as soon as he sees him Scott finds that he can finally breathe again. He kneels down in front of the sofa and lays his hand on Stiles’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Stiles,” he says. “Hey, buddy, you’ve got to wake up.”

                Stiles’s eyes blink open, thick with sleep. He slurs Scott’s name and Scott picks him up and sits on the couch with the sleepy toddler in his lap. Melissa crouches in front of him and runs through a series of tests. She checks his reflexes and his eyesight and his cognitive abilities and tells the sheriff, calling him _John_ with warm familiarity, that for all intents and purposes, Stiles seems to be a perfectly healthy four year old. There’s just the small matter that he’s a four year old.

                Which Scott is quickly coming to realize that he actually doesn’t mind. It’s like everything that’s weighed on Stiles for years, like his mom and the stress of high school and ADHD and caring for his dad, and all of the guilt he’s carried from the nogitsune have magically vanished. Years of his life have been stripped away, but so have sorrows of his past. Something hard in Scott’s chest eases and suddenly life feels…not right, but at least acceptable. Allison is back and that takes away eighty eight percent of the pain he feels. Another eleven percent is gone because Stiles is curled into his chest and safe and that word, _safe_ , rings through Scott like a bell. And that last one percent? Who cares.

                Maybe he shouldn’t be this happy. He’s still not sure he’s right-he’ll need Deaton to confirm that for him tomorrow. But he thinks that maybe Stiles did something stupid like try to exchange his life for Allison’s and clearly he’s still here, but now he’s here in a way that Scott can protect and even if the Alpha in him wasn’t keening with joy at that, the best friend would be loud enough on its own. He sets Stiles on the couch and walks over to the shelf of DVDs next to the TV. “How do you feel about Thor?” he asks. Because Stiles had begged him to see it but there had been too many other things to worry about. Actually, he had a lot of Avengers flicks to catch up on, if Stiles’s loud complaints were anything to go by. He figures now would be a good time to start.

* * *

 

                Driving to the vet’s office, Scott wonders what Stiles sounds like to other people. His brain moves faster than his vocal cords and it turns his mouth into an obstacle course. Sometimes he drops words, sometimes he stutters through a word, sometimes he starts to stutter and gives up before reaching the second letter and moves on to the next word as if he already said it. When they were both younger, it had made Stiles the laughing stock of daycare and elementary school. Scott had never understood that. _He_ could understand perfectly fine because the way he spoke was just as much a part of Stiles as anything else and he could understand Stiles perfectly.

                Stiles is running his mouth at about mach 10 right now, which isn’t even half speed, but he’s still lisping and stuttering through words of excitement because Scott had promised him Thor 2 after they ran their errands for the day; those being a visit to Deaton and going with the sheriff to get Stiles clothes if the whole situation wasn’t one that could be easily reversed.

                “And-and-and then the whole thing was like _blam!_ and the bridge broke and…” Stiles is vibrating as he tells the old woman waiting with her trembling Chihuahua. She’s smiling at him and Scott is almost sure she has no idea what he’s saying.

                Stiles looks like a ragamuffin. The only clothes they could find in his size were a too-big child’s baseball jersey from Scott and a pair of shorts that were just a tiny bit too small. Stiles had no clothes left from his own childhood and he’s barefoot and hopping up and down while telling a complete stranger about Thor and grinning from ear to ear. Scott can’t help but laugh. The old woman is smiling broadly, a fond look on her face. “Is he your little brother?” she asks. “He’s an absolute delight. Going to break some hearts when he’s older. I can feel it.”

                It’s probably not in their best interest to say that the reason Stiles has zero luck with girls as a teenager is because he spends his days with werewolves, so Scott just says, “Yeah. He’s my little brother.” He throws Stiles over his shoulder and hangs him upside down. “Come on, squirt. Let’s go see our favorite vet.” Stiles giggles taps his fists against Scott’s back like an irregular drum solo and waves goodbye to the old woman and her shivering dog.

                Deaton is unhelpful and helpful all at once. “I did give Stiles the spell book,” he said. “And there is a way to summon the fae in it, but I had no idea he would try to do it. Allison has returned, you say?” It’s not like he doesn’t _know_ because of course he does; the vet knows everything. Scott just nods and Deaton frowns. “Stiles said something to me when I warned him about magic. I told him it always comes with a price and his response was ‘a life for a life.’ He may have tried to exchange his life for hers, though I’m not sure why.”

                Scott knows exactly why: because that’s the fucked up sort of logic that runs through his best friend’s head. He doesn’t want to dwell on it, though, so he tells the vet, “We’ve tried asking him. He says he doesn’t remember. I don’t think he remembers anything before waking up in the forest.”

                “But he knows who everyone is.” Deaton says it like a statement, but there’s a question behind the words.

                Scott doesn’t actually know. “I’ll have the Pack come spend time with him today,” he promises. “We’ll see if it’s just Mom, John, and me or if it’s everyone.” Though Deaton’s hypothesis is the same as Scott’s, it does little to comfort the sheriff. “If it’s true,” Scott tells him, “it’s not going to just wear off, either.” He shouldn’t feel the least bit pleased at that. He shouldn’t, but does. Because there’s something soft in Stiles now and Scott will do anything to keep him smiling for just a little bit longer. “But we’re all going to keep looking for a cure, of course. There has to be something.”

                He sort of hopes that there isn’t.


	3. Fuchsia, Silver, and Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles's first encounter with the pack goes swimmingly.

                Scott hasn’t seen the sheriff this happy since Stiles’s mom was alive. He’s running all around Target, chasing his hyperactive toddler up and down the aisles as he shops for groceries and clothes for his son. John tosses in a few packs of underwear with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them into the cart as well as several packs of socks. The socks go in with a cringe. “They’ll all be lost all the time,” he says mournfully to Scott, who laughs.

                They let Stiles pick his own clothing, for the most part, and it’s funny to watch. He ends up with a Batman t-shirt that’s the wrong size, two of the same Captain America t-shirt, a pair of pajamas covered in the Avengers logo, and no pants. Scott laughs until he’s nearly crying and while John takes Stiles to look at more pajamas, he exchanges the Batman shirt for one in the correct size, puts back one of the Captain America shirts and exchanges it for the other Captain America shirt hanging beside it. Then he helps Stiles pick out a two pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts, a Batman sweatshirt, and a gray t-shirt that says, “Little Man, Big Plans” on the front. Stiles giggles and is a terror to try and dress so Scott finds himself forced to tickle the child into submission.

                They pick out his shoes, next: a pair of off brand sneakers that are the only pair John can get his son to try on before he’s rocketing off in another direction. Scott wrangles the boy into the cart for a few minutes and they’re on their way to the checkout line when John catches Stiles looking longingly at a toy car left in the wrong aisle and promptly swings the cart around and heads back to the toy department. “You can pick two,” he says, because he knows Stiles will get three out of him anyways. He picks a pack of Hot Wheels and, after some serious debate between Batman and the Hulk, chooses a Batman action figure. John slips the Hulk figure into the cart when Stiles isn’t looking.

                Scott buys a bag of M&Ms for the pair of them to share and sits in the backseat with Stiles. While they’re sitting there, the sheriff suddenly remembers he is in fact a law abiding force of authority that needs to set an example and finds himself running into the Babies R Us in the same parking lot so he can buy a booster seat. He picks the first one he sees and doesn’t worry about the fact that it’s covered in Elmo’s face because he knows his son and his son’s messes and soon it will be either too stained or too covered in stickers to see the original pattern anyway.

                Lydia Martin is already at his house when they arrive. She’s filing her nails in the driver’s seat of her car and she’s got the dead Argent girl in her passenger’s seat, chattering away as if she never saw the other side of the void. The sheriff tries to be surprised and finds that he’s so adjusted to Beacon Hills that it doesn’t even faze him. She gets out of the car and throws herself on Scott while Lydia pays close attention to Stiles’s chatter, looking distinctly more interested than she did when they were both in the third grade. She pulls an Avengers Masks color book and 96 pack of Crayola Crayons from her purse and Stiles’s face lights up like she’s brought him the moon. She lets him drag her inside and they sit at the dining room table with the book. Stiles promptly chooses a mask and hands Lydia his crayon of choice. She takes his coloring book method in stride and begins coloring the sections he points to in for him. Scott and Allison pull him aside to explain their theory on how his kid turned back into an actual kid and by the time they’re done, Stiles has moved on to his second mask.

                The next person to show up is Isaac Lahey. Someone must have told him Allison was back, because he stares at her for a minute, drinking in the sight of her, and then just nods once as greeting and turns his attention to Stiles. The sheriff can’t blame him-the kid did get renounced for Scott at Allison’s moment of death and considering the fact that she hasn’t left Scott’s side since her arrival, the sheriff gets the vibe that the situation isn’t going to change. But Isaac is vastly interested in playing cars with Stiles while Lydia colors for him. By the time Kira shows up, a bit shifty and awkward because she and Scott haven’t really spoken since the Allison ordeal, Stiles has moved on from coloring masks to cutting them out with help from Allison and assigning them to his friends. He gets Scott to put on Iron Man and gives Isaac Loki. He sweet talked Lydia into a purple and pink Black Widow mask and has Allison in a green Iron Man mask. He gives his father Thor, no questions asked, and puts Captain America on himself. They’re all wearing the masks and sitting in the living room watching Stiles play cars with Scott and Isaac when Derek Hale knocks on his door with a stack of pizza boxes.

                The sheriff lets him in and Derek smiles at the four year old version of their motor mouthed sort-of-emissary. “Hi Stiles.”

                Stiles claps his hands over his Captain America masked face and runs from the kitchen. He peeks around the corner, giggling every time he’s caught, and then disappears all together. They find him under the dining room table, coloring by himself and making an unsteady rendition of a Hulk mask with a fuchsia crayon. He adds some silver and yellow for good measure and holds the mask out to Scott to cut out and tie string to for him. Derek is setting a stack of paper plates beside the pizza boxes when Stiles tugs on his belt loop. Derek looks down at the toddler and has a monstrously colored pink Hulk mask thrust up at him. He takes it from Stiles with a very serious expression. “Thank you,” he says.

                “I wanna put it on you,” Stiles tells him, reaching up as if he can reach Derek’s head from his place less barely three feet off the ground. Derek crouches down and Stiles puts the mask on him with unsteady fingers. When Scott sees it, he chokes down a laugh and Derek growls at him, but doesn’t take the mask off.

                They eat pizza in the living room, Stiles sitting on the floor while they watch Iron Man. After a while, he starts to explore. His bed is too big for him now and his room is useless to a child, but somehow he keeps finding small treasures that neither John nor Scott knew he still had. First he brings out his Batman blanket, which was crumpled at the foot of his bed and lays it across Scott’s lap. “Not cold,” he tells Scott, his expression grave and serious. Scott nods as if this is vital information. Stiles runs off and comes back with a slightly ragged stuffed Siamese cat and hands him to Scott. “Lester,” he says, and Scott pretends to pet the cat. Stiles shakes his head. “No, this.” He trips on the word ‘no’ and there’s a fond expression on Lydia’s and Allison’s faces that tell Scott they’re completely melting over Stiles. Stiles snatches up Scott’s hand and shows him how to ‘properly’ pet Lester. He brings Scott a toy car and Scott’s Iron Man mask, which he’d left on the coffee table. He adds his own Beacon Hills Lacrosse jersey to the pile and two pictures of Stiles’s dad. When he’s done bringing Scott treasures, he lies back down on the floor. Scott joins him there and drapes the blanket over Stiles. Stiles uses his jersey and Lester as his pillows and sucks his thumb while he watches the second half of Captain America with everyone else. He seems to understand exactly what’s going on, despite his wanderings through the end of Iron Man and first half of Captain America, because he tells Scott, “He was little but he was still a good guy. He’s the best ‘venger I ever saw.”

                Scott smiles. “Yep. He’s definitely the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole "picking colors" thing came from an experience I had working in a daycare where a kid would have someone else color for him because he wanted it perfectly in the lines. That really seemed in character for Stiles, to me: he'd want to get it right, but what's more is that he'd want to know that someone was there with him and there was no better way for him to make sure of that than to have them color for him.


	4. Just Like Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the comparison fits, make the necessary changes until it doesn't

                The next morning proves to be a dilemma in 800 different ways. The sheriff has to be at the station first thing, Scott’s got his job at the clinic, Derek can’t miss work, Melissa has a shift at the hospital, and Isaac is tutoring some girl.

                “I’ll take him,” Lydia decides. “He can spend the day with Allison and my lovely self.” Her gaze traces over the sleeping toddler who is curled up beside Scott on the floor with liquid warmth and she nods. “Yeah. We’ll take him.”

                Scott carries the toddler to his bedroom and wrangles him into his Avengers pajamas. He tucks Stiles in and the child sucks him thumb in his sleep. Lydia drives Allison home and Derek gives Scott a ride to go _get his freaking bike from the forest, finally_. He rides home and goes to sleep knowing Stiles will be in good hands.

                Stiles is in more than good hands, it turns out. Lydia arrives with Allison in tow. The sheriff is a mess. He hasn’t had to get a toddler ready alongside himself in years, or ever without his wife’s assistance, and the house is chaos. Stiles’s hair is still dripping wet from being showered off hastily upon waking up and he’s dressed but refuses to put his shoes on because he’s too busy wailing about how he can’t find Lester. In seconds, Lydia has orchestrated the packing of his bag for the day by Allison, who packs his toy cars and Hulk action figure along with some snacks, found Lester, who had fallen into the crack behind Stiles’s bed, gotten Stiles to stop crying, dressed him in socks and shoes and his Batman hoodie, and sent Allison to fetch Stiles’s booster seat from the Sheriff’s vehicle. The sheriff breathes a sigh of heavy relief and thanks her. He kisses Stiles goodbye and leaves the house with coffee in hand.

                Lydia looks Stiles’s clothes up and down with disapproval. The graphic t-shirt and jeans and cheap sneakers have her sneering. “Oh, this just won’t do,” she says.

                They start their day at Starbucks because even death couldn’t cure Allison’s caffeine addiction. She and Lydia nurse lattes while Lydia gives Stiles a caramel apple spice and a blueberry muffin. Then they leave Beacon Hills and make a single-car exodus to the nearest mall and, much to Lydia’s delight, a Nordstrom. There, she simply plops Stiles into a “mommy cart” and holds her head high while pushing the stroller-cart through throngs of disapproving women who shake their heads and tell her she’s too young for children. Lydia sneers and tells them they’re too old for the brands they wear and to watch what they say in public.

                She figures out his size and Stiles ends up with Quicksilver and Ralph Lauren button downs, Hudson Kids jeans, some slacks, a pea coat, a red cardigan, a hoodie that actually has a zipper, and a single Sovereign Code t-shirt that Lydia accepts as “actually fashionable.” She bargains candy for Stiles changing and when she and Stiles emerge from the dressing room, he’s wearing gray jeans and the blue and white t-shirt with a hat plopped on his head. Lydia is smiling primly and carries the bags with his clothes to her car while Allison turns him loose in Sweet Factory and he fills a bag with sour belts, gummy bears, and red skittles. He runs ten steps ahead of them all through the mall and plays with his cars on the floor of Macy’s while Lydia buys a new lipgloss.

                Allison buys him a pair of red sneakers and even at four it’s like the color completes him. They let him ride the merry-go-round in the food court and when he’s done they take him for lunch at a sushi restaurant, where he eats a California roll with his fingers and Lydia rewards him with a scoop of strawberry gelato on the way home. At his house, Lydia empties a section of his closet into a bag and hangs up his new clothes. She looks around his room, her heart stuttering from nogitsune-era memories, and decides a change needs to be made.

                So she calls Derek.

* * *

“No,” he says and Lydia huffs. “No.”

                “Why not? It’ll be good for him.”

                “He’s not going to be a toddler forever,” Derek says. “You can’t just remake his room. He’s going to change back.”

                “And when he does, he’ll be grateful because we’re getting rid of all things…not Stiles.” Lydia arches on perfect eyebrow and says, “I’m just saying that maybe he needs something refreshing in his life.”

                “Refreshing?” Derek snorts. “He’s thirteen years younger than he’s supposed to be; is that not refreshing enough for you?” Lydia glowers and Derek will never admit to the fact that he cringes a little internally. “Where is he, anyway?” Derek asks. “Aren’t you on Stiles duty?”

                Lydia smiles. “Stiles!” she calls. “Derek’s here and he wants to play with you!”

                The sounds of little feet come rocketing down the hall and Stiles totters down the stairs a little precariously. He trips on the second to last step and Derek scoops him up before he can face plant, turning it into a little superhero spin that makes Stiles giggle. “Dere! Dere! Dere!” Stiles yells. He puts his hands on Derek’s face, feeling his beard and rubbing his sideburns with his palms.  Derek lets Stiles climb him like a tree and puts the kid on his shoulders. “Play with me!” Stiles begs.

                Derek scowls at Lydia but hangs onto Stiles and takes him into the living room. Lydia grins. “I’ll be looking at paint samples if you need me.”

* * *

 

Scott’s got Stiles on his shoulders and he’s spinning like a maniac. “Careful!” Allison cries, reaching out to catch hold of Stiles if Scott drops him.

                Isaac rolls his eyes. “Werewolf, remember? He’s not going to drop him.”

                Allison looks personally affronted but also vaguely pleased that Isaac is speaking to her. She puts her hands back up and ignores him. “Careful, Scott, seriously.”

                Derek plucks the child off Scott’s shoulders. “No,” he said.

                Scott could take the moment to point out who the Alpha is, but Stiles is cuddling up to Derek, his nose buried in the crook of Derek’s neck, so he rolls his eyes and says, “Isaac, let’s go. We’re going to be late for the movie.”

                Derek hands over Stiles. “I’ve got stuff to do,” he says. “Research. I’ll see you after.” He’s looking at Stiles when he says it and the toddler nods and leans out of Allison’s arms to plant a sloppy kiss on Derek’s cheek.

                He’s sitting in the living room with Stiles’s laptop when they walk in. Lydia has joined him, and if the expression on his face says anything, it’s not been a pleasurable experience for him. Stiles is chattering on at a thousand miles per hour, tugging Scott’s hair in tiny fists. “Scott and me saw Cap ‘rica!” he tells Derek.

                Derek smirks a little, looking more interested in the toddler than he’s looked in anything as long as Scott has known him. “Really?”

                “Yeah. And Scott let me sit all the way up front so I could see best and Cap saw Bucky again but he didn’t remember him and…” Stiles continued to prattle on as everyone settled in around him. “Scott, you’re like Cap’n,” Stiles said.

                “How’s that?” Scott asked.

                “Because you’re a hero,” Stiles said. “You’re good. On the inside. And you were sick but then you got big and it fixed you.”

                Scott doesn’t know how Stiles has this innate knowledge of the changes that have occurred-it’s like he’s always been this way, always been four and just known that things work the way they do now. “That’s right,” Scott says.

                “And Allison is ‘Tasha ‘cause she’s pretty and she kisses you. And my dad is Furry and I’m Bucky.”

                Scott doesn’t have time to snort at ‘Furry’ because he stops and says, “What? Why are you Bucky?”

                “Because,” Stiles explains, “I did bad things. I didn’t want to and they made me sad but the bad thing made me. It came in my room and told me to do them just like Hydra. So I’m Bucky ‘cause I’m the bad guy but you still love me.”

                “No,” Scott says firmly and he tugs Stiles onto his lap and into his arms. “That’s not true, Stiles.” Except that it is, so Scott doesn’t have much he can say. “You’re a hero, too. You…”

                “In the comics,” Derek says suddenly, “Bucky doesn’t stay bad for long. He’s Captain America’s best friend, after all. And he gets his memories back and he does a lot of good things.”

                “That doesn’t make the bad be good,” Stiles argues.

                “No,” Derek says with a small shake of his head, “but it’s a good reminder that even heroes can have bad things happen to them. Bucky had bad things happen to him but he also did really good things. He loved Steve enough to save him even when he didn’t remember him. He’s just a different kind of hero.” Everyone is staring at Derek with their mouths hanging open. He pointedly ignores the looks and lets Stiles climb into his lap.

                “Heroes,” Stiles says, “win.”

                Derek frowns. “What?”

                “The bad thing was in my room. I don’t like it. So I don’t think I won. Did I?”

                Derek smiles but it looks false. “Of course you did,” Derek says. “I promise. Hey, I think I left my coat in the dining room. Could you go get it for me?”

                Stiles nods and jumps up like he’s just been given the greatest mission ever. While he’s gone, Derek turns to Lydia. “Okay. We’ll fix his room.”

                She smiles. “That’s all I ever wanted.”


	5. Easter Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Egg hunts with toddlers can, in fact, go off without a hitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is totally fluffy and not at all where this was supposed to go. I'll post a serious chapter tomorrow, I promise. Sorry about this. I just get really excited about holidays.

                They leave the picture of his mother exactly as it was. Everything else disappears into boxes in the attic.

                Derek and Scott paint the room blue because Stiles likes blue and it fits the theme Lydia had planned. There had been a battle over said plan, but considering she’d already forced designer clothes on the kid, it was elected that his room could be superheroes. Scott realized that times could change, even if a person was just de-aged. This time around, Stiles is drawn toward Captain America. Because this time he hadn’t lost one of his parents to the “evil” of disease. This time, he had a best friend who actually fought monsters and enough other people in the Pack that it was almost like having his own Avengers…if the Avengers had werewolves instead of science experiments.

                The walls are blue but the bed is bright red. Lydia vetoes actually painting the Avengers logo onto the wall, but is overruled in the Posters and Wall Stickers department. Isaac adds glow in the dark stars and a full moon painted in glow paint, muttering about how counting stars would help Stiles sleep. After watching Scott flail for a while, Derek and the Sheriff take over putting the furniture together with barely covered laughter. Scott throws his hands up in defeat, claiming that Teen-Stiles had been right when assembling his _last_ ‘new dresser’ and that Ikea dressers are, in fact, bastard sons of C.S. Lewis and Ikea floor managers.

                While the men assemble the room, Lydia and Allison assemble the game plan for Easter Sunday.

 

* * *

 

                Stiles wakes up in his Avengers bedroom to a plastic Easter Egg by his door. Picking it up, he opens it and finds a single blue Brach’s Robins Egg inside. Popping it in his mouth, he opens his door and follows a trail of four more eggs to the kitchen, where the Sheriff is already making pancakes. He sets a stack of pancakes with rainbow sprinkles in them in front of Stiles, with _real_ bacon and scrambled eggs on the sides. Hey, his son might be a toddler and all, but eventually he’ll change back and the Sheriff is going to take every available opportunity to _not_ eat Rabbit Food until that happens.

                “Daddy’s ‘posed to eat stuff that’s good for him,” Stiles says. The Sheriff grimaces.

                “Scott and Melissa will be here, soon,” he says in an attempt to distract the four year old. “Isaac, too. And Allison and Lydia, after they spend time with their own families.” Because Lydia likes to keep up a pretense of normal and Allison just came back from the _dead_ so _of course she’s going to do Easter with Chris, first._

                “Derek?” Stiles asks.

                “I don’t know,” the Sheriff says. “Maybe.”

                Derek, it turns out, is the first to arrive. He brings Stiles a plush rabbit puppet that looks like a real rabbit and a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit. Stiles climbs into his lap, face and fingers still syrup-and-sprinkles sticky, and makes him read it four times, using the toy to act out the scenes. Melissa and the boys arrive next and Melissa bustles Stiles off to get him cleaned up and dressed in the Easter outfit she’s brought him. Scott and Isaac start up a video game and Derek helps the Sheriff clean up from breakfast and prepare everything for lunch. They’ve got the burgers prepared on a plate and everything else just waiting to be assembled with Lydia and Allison arrive in the same car with Chris Argent in tow. He nods awkwardly to the Sheriff and says, “John.”

                “Chris,” the Sheriff responds as he hands Chris a beer. He hands Derek one, too, and Derek thanks him with surprise.

                Stiles comes down the stairs in khaki pants, a short sleeved blue plaid shirt, and a tiny clip on tie. Lydia and Allison coo over him and take pictures on their phones. The Sheriff picks him up and swings him round, landing kisses on his head and the girls take pictures of that, too. When the fawning is over, Scott hands over his present to Stiles: a box of Peeps that he promises to help Stiles blow up in the microwave. The Sheriff cringes, but doesn’t argue. He does, however, get up and leave the fire extinguisher in plain sight as a warning.

                Stiles sits on the floor by Derek’s feet and tries to make his bunny hop like Derek had. Derek bends down and helps Stiles slip his tiny hand into the puppet and teaches him how to move its paws and nod its head. Stiles then proceeds to have the rabbit hop all over Derek, even climbing up on the couch and poking his cheek with it. “It’s kissin’ you!” he giggles. Derek swipes Stiles legs out from under him and holds him hostage, tickling him until there are tears running down the child’s cheeks. His beer rests forgotten on the side table.

                No one says anything when he finally releases Stiles, but Lydia makes a point of saying, “Sheriff, what are you planning to do with Stiles after this? We’ve all been on Spring break, but we have school starting Tuesday.”

                Every eye in the room turns to Derek. They expect him to argue. At least once. At least half-heartedly. He shrugs amicably. “I can work from home.”

                “Wait, you have a _job_?” And shouldn’t this be Stiles’s line? Except Stiles is busy playing with a stuffed rabbit so Scott is the one who says it.

                “We’ve discussed this several times, Scott,” Allison says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Isaac looks pointedly away, going back to his video game and creaming Scott, who is no longer focused on drag racing.

                “But…doing what?” he asks and how is it the first time he’s asking this?

                Derek rolls his eyes. Scott should know this by now, shouldn’t he? “Accounting.” He looks over to the Sheriff. “Would that be all right with you?

                The Sheriff nods, surprised, and says, “How about I get started on the burgers? Melissa, could you and the girls help me in the kitchen?”

                Melissa gets up to help. Lydia and Allison take the hint and go to the kitchen to sneak the plastic eggs and Stiles’s Easter basket out of the pantry to hide the eggs in the yard. While the Sheriff grills, they place two dozen eggs in various places in Stiles’s backyard. Melissa finishes making the salad and opening bags of potato chips and Stiles is none the wiser.

                After lunch, the Sheriff proffers a lime green plastic Easter Basket from the dollar store and says, “Well?” Stiles takes it and is off in a dash.

                Scott follows along to help. When Stiles is clearly missing an egg, he nudges him in the right direction. He takes pictures on his phone. When Stiles decides the basket is too much effort and wanders off, he picks the basket up and carries it for him while Stiles toddles up and drops eggs in it. At the end, only one egg hasn’t been located. It’s bright orange and sitting in the middle of the grass in plain sight, but Stiles turns round and round and is still unable to find it. Isaac coughs and goes to stand by it, but Stiles still doesn’t notice. Scott goes to point it out and Stiles yells, “No! I can find it!” in such a fast, breathy voice that Scott almost doesn’t catch what he’s saying.        

                It takes time- a good ten minutes- but Stiles does find the egg. From there, he simply plops down on the ground and opens it. “Stiles,” the Sheriff says, “why don’t you come inside and do that?”

                But Stiles is busy unwrapping the piece of candy he found inside the egg. Scott picks him up and carries him back to the living room while Stiles tries to balance the orange egg on Scott’s head.

                In the living room, Stiles unloads his spoils of war. The eggs are cast aside, forgotten pieces of the game that are no longer important as they don’t contain sweets. Scott starts to turn them into a mountain and Stiles tries to take over but knocks it down and turns his attention back to candy and his toy bunny instead.

                “Where did he get this?” Lydia asks, examining the toy.

                “Derek,” the Sheriff answers.

Lydia’s eyes narrow and she nods. Not much later, everyone is trickling out and saying goodbye and she grabs Derek’s arm. “Thirty dollar toys, Derek? Someone might think you actually like Stiles.” She smiles angelically and leaves before he can defend himself. Not that he has any reason to. He can buy thirty dollar rabbit toys for toddlers if he wants to. He makes enough money. Stiles is only going to be a kid for so long, and as long as he is, Derek might as well be kind. And he had little siblings and cousins by the dozens, once. He remembers caring for kids. Likes it, even. So no, he has absolutely no reason to defend himself. None at all.

                It has nothing to do with the fact that Stiles had once, in a moment of manic rambling, mentioned liking the Velveteen Rabbit as a kid. Or anything to do with the fact that maybe Derek knew the toy would make Stiles smile and he wanted to see the kid’s face light up like every day was Christmas morning. And he definitely isn’t the least bit excited about having Stiles at his apartment. And if he is, Lydia will kindly keep her trap shut or so help him he will fly Cora back to dye her hair pink.


	6. The Loft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's loft finds a way to be kid friendly.

                Derek picks Stiles up on Tuesday morning right on time. The Sheriff has had a week of practice, now, and getting Stiles ready is infinitely easier than it was the first morning. His bath time is at night, now, and the Sheriff sets his clothes out the night before and leaves his bag packed and snacks in the refrigerator to toss into his bag come morning. Stiles is now on something of a sleeping schedule and the Sheriff is actually ready, coffee in hand, when Derek knocks on the door. “Let me get the car seat,” the Sheriff says.

                “No need,” Derek tells him. “I’ve got one in my car.” He gives no reason for this. Offers no explanation.

                The Sheriff, who has learned of late to simply take Derek in stride, nods and hands off the slightly groggy toddler. “I’ll pick him up at seven, then.”

                Derek waves goodbye and straps Stiles into the backseat of his Camaro. They drive to Derek’s apartment and Derek carries Stiles up the stairs to his loft. It’s open and roomy, but not exactly Child Friendly so Derek has put a baby gate in front of the stairs. He’s hoping that as long as he doesn’t point it out, Stiles won’t try to go up the stairs. Not that he isn’t allowed, but that it isn’t exactly safe for him to do on his own. Closer to the table that will be serving as his desk, Derek has invested in the concept of an area rug. Against one wall, where the rug meets the corner, is a long wooden box like a hope chest. Stiles is awake now and Derek points to that box, hoping to distract him from wandering the places that are out of Derek’s direct line of sight. Stiles toddles over and pushes the lid of the box up and gasps.

                Inside is an array of toys. The dumpsters outside are full of packaging, like it’s the day after Christmas instead of a day in spring. There are action figures, picture books, toy cars, and building blocks. There’s a slinky and a child sized soccer ball and a kid’s lacrosse stick, which of course can’t be used inside but which Derek purchased on a whim. There are coloring books and a set of crayons. There are a few learning games and some toys that are, if not ‘normal’, would be necessary if he had actually grown up in as a human in a wolf pack. Things like a toy crossbow and a few toy guns. Things like a toy sword because, while it’s not exactly useful, it does teach Stiles that having a weapon in his hands shouldn’t feel like something foreign or that he’s incapable of doing. Protecting himself should feel natural. And of course Derek can’t be sure that having the toys now will change anything when they turn him back, but he’s hoping some of the messages about not being invincible might stick.

                Stiles settles down and surrounds himself with toys, keeping Lester and his new bunny close by. Lester watches over him from on top of Derek’s bed. The rabbit stays closer, always pressed to Stiles’s side. If it’s not, he looks around frantically until it has been located and lays it against his leg so he can always feel it. Derek keeps an eye on him from his workspace and submerges himself in numbers.

                At 11:53, Stiles tugs on his jeans. “Dere?” he says, “hungry.”

                Derek stands up and carries Stiles to the kitchen. He lets Stiles sit on the counter and swing his feet while Derek makes him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and puts it on a plate beside half an apple’s worth of apple slices. “How many pieces?” he asks.

                “Four,” Stiles says, “like me.”

                Derek cuts the sandwich diagonally and tells him, “Triangles always taste better than squares.” Stiles nods as if Derek has just imparted the secrets of the universe on him.

                After lunch, Stiles naps on top of Derek’s covers, his thumb in his mouth and the bunny and Lester both tucked into his arms. Derek takes a picture on his phone. Sets it as the background so he’ll remember to use it as a means of mocking Stiles in the future.

                At 7:38 the Sheriff picks Stiles up with a litany of apologies. Derek shrugs them off and says, “You’re the Sheriff. You’re not going to be able to avoid night shifts forever. Leave him here if you have to.”

                And thus the pattern is born. Stiles stays at Derek’s place while the Sheriff works. Sometimes, they go into the office because Derek has to make an appearance sometimes at least or he might lose his job. He has to go to meetings, occasionally, and when he does the woman who runs the front desk watches over Stiles and coos at him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. The first time, Stiles hides behind Lester and his bunny. Every time after he soaks in the adoration like the brat Derek knows him to have always been, even as a teenager. And there is definitely no fondness in that thought when it crosses Derek’s mind. None at all.

                Sometimes Stiles stays the whole night, instead of just late into it. On those nights, Derek deals with the “Battle of the Sleeping Spaces” because at first he tries to get Stiles to stay on the couch or in the bed on his own, but no matter where he puts him in the beginning of the night, by the time Derek is falling asleep himself, Stiles has joined him and is still wide awake. The third time it happens, Derek strikes up a bargain with Stiles. Derek reads him the Velveteen Rabbit and in exchange Stiles will go to sleep. It almost works, but Stiles won’t stop following Derek to wherever he sleeps. Eventually, Derek has to admit that it is going to keep happening and they start sharing his bed. Stiles grins in triumph and Derek realizes the kid had the whole damned thing planned. He tries to find it less adorable than it actually is. Fails.

* * *

 

                Months go by. They keep looking for cures, keep failing to find one. Scott revels in his big brother role because for once, he is taking care of Stiles instead of it being the other way around. He takes him to movies and plays with him and visits him after school. Allison takes him to lacrosse games to cheer Scott on. They have to make a cover story for her; a barely acceptable lie about kidnappings that only flies because the Sheriff is in on it. At the same time, they’re forced to file a missing person’s report on Stiles for “running away” and forge papers claiming that Stiles is the Sheriff’s nephew that is simply staying with him for the time being.

                Derek does not adjust to Kid Stiles.

                Or, rather, he does but he does not revel in it the way Scott does. He enjoys it, to be certain. Stiles is Pack and right now Stiles is in eve more need of Pack protection than he usually is and Derek is, in some ways, reveling in caring for Stiles and providing for him because Stiles never lets anyone do that and now he has to because he is the Pack’s baby. But in other ways, Derek feels the separation from the real Stiles like an ache. A pull that never gets better because who the hell had known he would be able to miss a pest so much? But he does and it burns the same way that missing Cora burns. In a way that will always be there but is still no easier to accept for knowing that.

                They don’t put Stiles in preschool. The Pack takes care of him because there’s always the small chance he’ll change back or something will happen and they want someone who can protect him around 24/7.

                And then, of course, something does happen.


	7. In Sickness and in Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets sick. Then so does every other kid in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos if you can guess the monster!

Ch 7

                What happens first is Stiles getting sick for the first time as a child. It hits him like a freight train. He goes to bed just fine and the next morning the Sheriff gets up to wake him and he’s sniffling, burning up, and just plain miserable and the Sheriff has to call in sick to take care of him.

                Scott tries to make it a Pack affair and Melissa puts her foot down so hard it’s like a minor earthquake has happened in the Pack meeting. Aside from his father and Melissa, who elects herself Stiles’s nurse, Stiles is permitted one werewolf guest at a time. Scott and Derek claim all his hours before she’s even finished speaking. Scott plays cars with Stiles on his American flag bedspread. Derek reads to him.

                Stiles sniffles his way through six days of agony. He’s grumpy when he's sick and everything is a struggle. From soup to bath time, from temperature taking to medicine, Stiles is impossible. It only gets worse when Derek tries to get Stiles to blow his nose.

                “No!” Stiles yelps, dodging Derek with surprising proficiency. He hides under the covers, pretends Derek can’t see him.

                “Stiles,” Derek growls, “your nose is full of snot. Blow.”

                “Hurts,” Stiles whimpers.            

                Derek huffs and tugs back the covers. Stiles presses his palms over his nose, smearing snot between them. Derek cringes. “Stiles,” he tries again.

                “Hurts!” Stiles repeats, whining. He turns his face away from Derek and cowers.

                Derek sighs, wishing for Teen-Stiles, who gives long-winded but detailed and understandable explanations of his ailments and who can take care of himself and who is, if still painfully stubborn, at least a touch more cooperative. “Please?” Derek tries.

                “ _Hurts!_ ” Stiles is almost yelling this time.

                “ _What_ hurts?” Derek is exasperated. He wishes for Melissa, who is a nurse, or Scott, who always seems to understand Child-Stiles. Like a Stiles Whisperer.

                “Nose,” Stiles whimpers again and oh. _Oh._ Derek pulls Stiles’s hands away from his nose, cringing slightly, and examines it. It’s cherry red and sore looking, raw and tender from too much attention. Derek eyes the roll of toilet paper by Stiles’s bed with distaste. “No blowing!” Stiles says. “I don’t want it.”

                Derek picks him up, avoiding his hands, and takes him to the bathroom. He runs the tap until it’s warm and sets Stiles on the counter. “Don’t you ever,” he says, “tell Melissa or your dad I let you do this. It’s a secret.” Stiles nods and Derek grimaces. “Blow with your hands and then we’ll wash them.” _Thoroughly._

                It’s gross and Derek is never going to think about this again _ever_ but then it’s done and Stiles is cleaning his hands in the sink while Derek texts Scott to _bring lotion-tissues with him, **please**_. He returns Stiles to his bed and Stiles is out cold in seconds. Scott arrives for his Stiles-time with actual tissues and Derek disappears through the front door.

* * *

 

                The next thing to happen is that, once Stiles is well again, Melissa comes home with reports of other kids getting sick. Not sick the way Stiles had been, though. Sick with pneumonia and unconscious. After the third case, Melissa brings it up, worried for Stiles, and Derek identifies the issue as supernatural.

                It becomes a race against the clock to cure Stiles and find and kill the creature causing the unnatural comas. At an almost constant rate, Derek wishes for Teen-Stiles with profound longing. Stiles would already have the puzzle solved. Stiles would already be saving kids. Stiles would already know the cure.

                Whatever the cause, kids are dropping into hospital beds in legions. Someone sits up and guards Stiles every night. He’s never alone for even a second. Everyone worries it won’t be enough.

                Stiles is not unaware of his upped security. He absorbs the attention: roughhouses with Scott, cuddles with Derek, and preens under Allison’s and Lydia’s adoration. He plays with Isaac, though with less enthusiasm than he does Scott, and is wary of Kira but accepting of her presence. He gets fussy around Danny- who simply shows up one day with an RC car, a bag of skittles, and zero explanation of how he knows that the toddler is his classmate- unless the teen is constantly holding him.

                Stiles, they all realize, is a tactile child. Far more tactile than he is as a teenager. As himself, Stiles has been through painful losses and has built a series of walls around his heart to keep himself safe. Child-Stiles has no such borders to cross. He craves touch, is willing to climb atop his family to get their attention when he needs or wants it, is only still when he is being smothered in affection.

                Derek wonders if Teen-Stiles is secretly like that, too. He thinks about Stiles’s face smoothing out when he hugs Scott or Melissa; thinks about the way he stills when his father puts a hand on his shoulder, and considers for three seconds how still the teen would get with Derek’s hand around his cock before he blocks that out and turns his attention to picking up the toys Stiles has left out instead. There’s no use in wondering. Even if they cure Stiles, Derek doesn’t-can't- have a chance. He lets the image go for the sake of his sanity.

                He doesn’t know where the image came from anyway. Until the nogitsune, Stiles hardly crossed Derek’s mind except as a means of communication with Scott. He respected Stiles, trusted him, even felt…if not a _liking_ for the hyperactive teen than amicable towards him. But he didn’t _think_ about him, didn’t fantasize about having him around. The nogitsune incident threw him into Derek’s reality in an intense way. The whole situation relied on Derek and the others saving Stiles from himself and that had definitely put him on Derek’s radar in a way he'd never been before. But this is different. This, Derek knows deep down, is what happens when you lose something you never knew you wanted. Now that having Stiles is out of the question entirely, he can’t stop thinking about how much he respects the teenager, how much he's always trusted him, how much he actually appreciates him, how much he _misses_ him and how much he wants Stiles to respect and appreciate him as well. The feelings, Derek knows, are pointless, though. Even if they find a cure, Derek is damaged and 23. Stiles is 17 and _Stiles_ and the point is that it’s not worth thinking about.

* * *

 

                Isaac is on guard when Melissa phones. Scott is hanging out, napping before his turn to be on watch, and Stiles is cuddled up next to him, wearing his father’s sunglasses and Scott’s lacrosse jersey and fast asleep on Scott’s knee. Isaac’s phone buzzes three times before he gets it out of his pocket and Scott stirs from the noise. “Yeah?” he says. “What? When did this happen?” Scott sits up straighter, listening in. “He’s there now?...Yes, yeah I’ll call Deaton right now…No, Scott’s here…Yeah, I’ll tell him…Bye.” He hangs up the phone and if he weren’t a werewolf, his hands would be shaking. “It’s Danny,” he tells Scott. “He’s in the hospital. Same as the others.”


	8. Trading Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic always comes with a price.

               Scott has never actually thought about murdering his boss before. Contemplated an irritated roar, maybe. Considered holding him hostage until he was more forthcoming with information…well, once, when Stiles had suggested it. But never actually ripping his face off.

                “Of course, I hadn’t considered it an option before,” Deaton says, “because we didn’t have the same elements that we do, now.”

                “Can. You. Do. It?” Derek grinds out. He is not as in control of his anger as Scott is and the child sleeping on the medical table behind him, wrapped in Derek’s leather jacket, is the only reason he hasn’t shifted.

                “I think it’s possible, yes,” Deaton says. “Now that I’ve found a suitable occupant for the spell.”

                There are semantics that Scott doesn’t get but he also doesn’t have time to worry about those parts. He accepts that there is magic involved and that Deaton is going to transfer the spell and simply moves on with his life.

                Lydia is not quite so certain. “Just _who_ is going to cast this spell?”

                “I gave Stiles the spell in the first place, so I think I’m more than qualified.” Deaton is smiling. Lydia looks like she’s going to scream. “Of course, you could always do it. That’s an option.”

                “What?” Lydia flinches.

                “You’re a banshee,” Deaton explains. “You have close attachments to the fae world, yourself. You could do it just as easily as I could. Perhaps even easier.”

                Conflict rages across Lydia’s face. She drinks in the sight of young Stiles and straightens her shoulders. Tossing her hair back proudly, she says, “Fine. How do I do it? Who’s getting the spell?”

* * *

Everyone who sees her gapes slightly when Malia walks into the circle of trees with Deaton and Peter. Lydia is waiting with Stiles while Scott and Derek flank the outer edges of the circle as guards. Deaton steps in and hands Lydia a bundle of herbs and then leaves. Peter nudges Malia in with an encouraging smile and then follows Deaton into the tree line to wait.

                There are words that Lydia doesn’t understand but says anyways. There are offerings made: glasses of cherry wine and burning herbs and a lump of milky green crystal that Stiles or Allison would know the name of but Lydia has never cared to learn about until now. At first, nothing changes. In fact, visually, nothing changes. Lydia is still standing alone in the circle with Stiles and Malia.

                Stiles doesn’t understand what’s happening. He knows that Lydia picked him up early in the morning and got him dressed in his Easter outfit, which barely fits after the span of months that have passed since that date, and takes him to a diner where the whole Pack piles in and eats together with forced enthusiasm and more than a truckload of somber anticipation. He knows that there is a paper bag just inside the tree line with clothes that would fit Scott or Derek but don’t fit him. He knows that Lydia cried a little when she bought him a Carmel Apple Spice and doughnut holes on the way to the forest. He knows that everyone is nervous and tense and that there is a reason he doesn’t have any clothes on anymore and that for the same reason, the girl in front of him who has jittery hands and shifts back and forth impatiently is wearing nothing but a t-shirt. But for the most part, he doesn’t know anything.

                Lydia doesn’t realize it at first when the air around her changes, but suddenly there is a presence. Many presences, actually. Eight in total. She isn’t like Stiles. She can’t see them in her mind’s eye the way Deaton says Stiles does. But she can sense them: tall and willowy and with such strong presences that her own powers feel choked. She stands tall. “We bring offerings,” she says, “in exchange for a trade.”

                _What do you wish to trade?_ She doesn’t flinch at the voice in her head only because Deaton told her she mustn’t.

                _We know,_ says another. _Don’t play games._

_Yes, we know,_ says a third. _And we don’t like it._

_What do we gain?_ asks the first. _That one has no memories to take. This one has lived so much._

                _But the boy was such fun,_ says a fourth. _And we do miss it._

_Yes we do,_ says the third.

_We miss it, but it isn’t worth it,_ claims a fifth.

_The loss is too great,_ says a sixth.

                _We don’t like to lose,_ the seventh tells her.

                Those seven voices titter and bicker in Lydia’s head until she’s reeling. She’s going to speak, almost about to say _stop, stop, stop_ when she feels one of them prodding into her mind.

                _We could make a bargain with her,_ says the eighth suddenly. This voice is older, like an ancient oak rather than a young willow tree. Its voice is gravelly, not quite male and yet not female. The voice is soothing, compared to the others, and Lydia realizes that not only is this one the one who was in her head, but this one is also the leader, who has the final say. _She has memories of interest._

                _Which kind?_ asks the first. It sounds excited. Lydia shudders and it cackles.

                _Love_ , says the eighth. _Isn’t that what we took from the boy? Love and pain? This girl has both as well. We will make your trade,_ it tells Lydia, _for the price of love._

                Lydia nods before she can think about it. “Wait,” she says suddenly. “Who are you t-”

                The next thing she knows, a fully dressed, fully grown Stiles is picking her up and carrying her out of the circle. “Shh,” he says, his voice low and deep and everything Lydia remembers it to be. “Take it easy,” he says. “I’ll bring you home.”  Lydia closes her eyes and listens to the thrum of his heartbeat and for a moment everything is right in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you've got fully grown Stiles back, but the story isn't quite over yet. I promise!


	9. Power to Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles returns to work on the task at hand.

                The best part of having Stiles back is that he points out things that should be obvious: like the fact that they can search Danny’s room with no problem. He’s the one to suggest it and the one to find the handprint, going off the logic of “You guys are creeper wolves, so why couldn’t whatever did this be a creeper at the window, too?”

                The handprint is like that of a skeleton, a mark of rot on Danny’s windowsill that makes Lydia feel like screaming. Stiles is all business about putting it back together, barely sparing time for everyone to hug him and tell him they “missed him” because he’s too busy focusing on saving Danny. And he strongly recommends they do the same. He doesn’t sound angry, but Scott wouldn’t say he sounds pleased, either.

                There are nineteen different creatures that leave handprints marked in Allison’s family’s bestiary, but only two that attack children specifically and only one that makes any sense in their situation, seeing as the other is eighty feet tall and they think they would have noticed that. The other hides in human form by day and takes its true from while feeding from sleeping youths at night.

                The word “Shtriga” leaves a cloying taste in Stiles’s mouth the same way “nogitsune” did so he tries to avoid using it. Lydia notices and also avoids it, using words like “creature” instead. Stiles appreciates her efforts, but says nothing about them because he’s focused on saving Danny.

                The problem is that, though they know what it is, they have no idea how to kill it. There are tips for dipping silver in the regurgitated blood of its victims, but the blood thing is just a legend and it only steals their life forces. Which don’t require puking up. There are tips about trapping one in a church with a cross made of pig bones but it can only be done on Easter and they don’t have that kind of time. There are references to special dreamcatchers but no one knows what makes them special or how to obtain said crafts.

                It is Isaac that recommends killing it with magic. Because Stiles obviously has magic and it might just be the only way. But honestly, Stiles doesn’t want to go anywhere near his Spark. Saving Allison had been done in a moment of blind desperation, after weeks of sitting on the idea and mulling it over and having dreams of it intermingled with his nightmares. Accessing whatever Spark is inside of him leaves him feeling breathless and achy and he’s not really interested in visiting those feelings, thank you very much. But he has to save Danny.

                Stiles agrees to visit Deaton.

* * *

                “That’s not how it works,” Deaton says. “Your magic is far more primal than that. But you could, in theory, make a weapon capable of killing her.”

                “Like?” Stiles asks.

                “How do you feel about bullets?”

                Stiles feels distanced from bullets. He feels worse about swords and arrows, though, so he lets Chris dump a handful of silver bullets into his hand. “There are only six there,” he says. “You’ll have to make every shot count.”

                It had never occurred to Stiles that he’d also have to wield the weapon he put magic into. He puts the bullets in a moleskin bag around his neck and lets his anger and desperation and feelings of pain seep into it, morphing into a desire to kill the monster that’s trying to take away his friend.

                Allison teaches him to shoot. He could ask his dad and in fact his dad does take him the first few times, but Allison is familiar with the specific gun he’ll be shooting and she claims she needs time with him anyways because she missed Teen-Stiles so they spend an entire day unloading bullets into targets in the woods. The first 26 bullets after the initial round to teach him what to expect and how to stand miss because he’s overthinking it.

                Stiles flinches when Allison pushes the gun away. He puts the safety on and sets it on the ground. “What?” he says.

                “Hit me,” she says.

                Stiles jumps backward, nearly tripping over a log. “ _What_?” he demands.

                “Hit me,” Allison says again, like this makes perfect sense.

                “I’m not going to hit you,” Stiles cries. “Why would I ever hit you?”

                Allison smiles. “Exactly. So stop acting like you’re going to hurt me because you’re _not_. You’re not _It_ anymore, you’re Stiles and _Stiles_ would never _ever_ hurt me. Okay?” She looks sweet and angelic and she picks the gun back up and hands it to him.

                Stiles wants to find a logical argument but can’t because she’s making a good point. He has to focus on killing the monster _outside_ , not the one that he still feels festering in his chest and in his mind. So he unloads another round pretending that each bullet is going into the shtriga’s head and his shots improve throughout the day until he’s using that single gun like he’s a natural. Each shot also contributes a little more to the magic working in the bullets he’s got at his neck. He doesn’t like them hanging there, doesn’t like their weight, but they are manageable and he can feel them beginning to thrum with the power to kill.

                He feels uncomfortable that the power contained in them came from inside him.


	10. Click, Click, BOOM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles pulls the trigger. He wasn't ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It’s all inside of me.  
> It’s coming over me.  
> It’s all inside of me.  
> It’s all inside my head.  
> Click, click, boom!”  
> Click Click Boom-Saliva

                No one knew the thing could get inside your head. Or if they did, no one bothered to mention that tiny, excruciatingly significant detail to Stiles.

                He’s on the floor, grappling for the gun, gasping, telling himself _it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real._ But that doesn’t change the fact that the thing slinking toward him is no longer a _thing_ but something else all together. Instead of some _thing_ , the creature has become some _one_.

                Its face flickers between several identities, like it can’t choose. At first, when it appears before him, it is in the form of his mother. When he points the gun anyway and misses on the first shot, it sails forward, simultaneously Scott and Lydia. When it is less than three feet away, it briefly becomes Allison and asks him, in her pretty voice, “Will you shoot me, Stiles? Can you kill me again?”

                Can he kill her again? Stiles doesn’t know. Because, really, he didn’t kill Allison. He was already separated from the nogitsune by that point. But at the same time, he did kill her in his dreams. In his nightmares. Dozens of times. At first, when the oni demon plunged the sword through her middle, he hadn’t been sure he was awake. He’d already seen it too many times. He had disassociated.

                So can he?

                It turns out he doesn’t have to. When it leans over him, leering, it has finally settled on a face it likes. “I took this one from your dreams,” it says and it sounds just like Derek. Stiles starts to pant under it, feeling like all his air is being sucked out by panic. “You do think about it, don’t you? Having me in your bed? Next to you on the couch?” The thing that isn’t Derek rolls its eyes. “Don’t be so stupid, Stiles. It’s obvious I could never love you. Who could love a beaten down, battered thing like you?” Its face is so close now, so close that Stiles can taste the scent of its rotting flesh. “Nobody wants a broken toy,” it says, chuckling under its breath.

                Stiles fires and the bullet lodges in its neck. It reels back and suddenly Stiles’s mother is on the floor, screaming and gurgling his name. She pleads with him, begs him to save her.

                Just like when he was a kid, Stiles can do nothing for her. He stands over her, sobbing helplessly, begging her _forgive me, please forgive me, Mom, I’m sorry, please_. He unloads four more bullets into her head. When he’s done it no longer looks like his mother. It no longer even looks like a head. More like a pulpy mess that is oozing black fluid. Stiles sobs brokenly, keeps pulling the trigger because at this point it is the only thing he knows how to do. He forgets breathing, forgets thinking, forgets living, and pulls the trigger with lips that beg like a repenting sinner’s.

                A strong hand tries to take the gun from him and Stiles screams. It’s a high pitched keening sound that doesn’t sound like his own voice and that he can’t even identify until his throat begins to feel raw. But now that he’s started, he doesn’t know how to stop.

                The hand wrestles the gun away from him and tosses it across the room. It clatters to the floor and the hands drag Stiles away from the body and ease him on the ground, turned in a way that the body holding him blocks out the view of the shtriga’s carcass. Arms hold him and rock him and promise safety and security. Stiles knows that the voice is full of lies.

                “No!” he yells, struggling. “Get out! Get out of my head! _Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out!”_ He brings his hands up and presses them to the sides of his head, sobbing a broken “ _Please!”_ that has the person holding him hostage breathing out like they’ve been punched.

                “Stiles.” His name is firm in the person’s mouth and Stiles finds a pair of glowing blue eyes boring into his own. “Stiles, get a grip.”

                Stiles hiccups, trying to catch his breath. So he’s not in his head. That’s nice to know.

                It takes him a few more minutes to start getting his bearings back. “Not dead,” he says, touching Derek’s face to prove it.

                Derek, who has since let go of him and given Stiles the space he desperately needed, does not pull away or lean into Stiles’s hand. He sits perfectly still until Stiles retracts his hand, and when Stiles is safely back in his own personal space bubble, Derek says, “No. Not dead.”

                Stiles nods faintly. “Good,” he says. “Thought I shot you.” Somehow it still feels like he did.

* * *

 

                That night, Stiles's dreams are all red. They usually are anyways, but tonight’s are particularly more red than usual. Stiles starts the dream on the porch of his own house. He tries the door, because he always tries the door, and it is locked. He has no key and the spare is not where it should be. Stiles knows the routine now, but to delay the inevitable, he searches for the missing spare key and fails to find it. He breaks the front window with a rock instead. Water flows out because his house has become a fish tank for the souls of the damned and no matter how long the water spills out there will never be air inside that house. It will remain full forever.

                Stiles starts walking and pays no attention to directions. It doesn’t matter that he’s walking the opposite way because inevitably he will find himself at Derek’s house. The only thing that changes is the scenery on the way there. The view going straight toward Derek’s house is much bloodier, is paved with the nogitsune’s spoils of war, and Stiles doesn’t have the stomach for that right now.

                The other way is a ghost town. Abandoned cars are wrecked and leaking fluids that never get the spark needed to explode onto the streets. Doors hang open, windows are boarded up, glass is broken. The pavement is rippled and cracked in places like the road itself experienced upheaval. In some spots, entire shops are blown apart like a grenade was let off inside.

                There are souls that wander this place, Stiles knows. They skitter in and out of sight just at the corner of his vision, bloody parodies of the Beacon Hills citizens he meets every day on the street.  Stiles thinks if he could see them clearly, they would look like zombies from a bad horror flick.

                He really doesn’t want to see them clearly.

                Derek’s house looms in front of him where the post office should be. Because there is no other way for the dream to go-Stiles knows, he has tried to change it- Stiles opens the door and steps inside. The charred and scattered bits of Derek’s life are here, strewn about and in disarray that can never be solved with a broom and dustpan. Here, there are fewer places to hide. No one hides behind doors or cowers in rubble. Faces of his loved ones line up on either side of him, making him a pathway to the cellar door.

                They are bloody, but Stiles tries not to look. Scott is covered in stab wounds from the sword, a gaping hole in his center. Lydia has no face. Derek has been torn apart. Stiles never has the strength to look at his father. There are others there , too, but the one missing is the one he dreads the most.

                Stiles walks to the basement door in silence. They watch him go, these massacred versions of all the people he has ever loved. His own mother, hospital gown ripped open and her guts spilling out like a surgery gone wrong, opens the door for him.

                Stiles needs no light to descend these steps. The darkness is almost soothing because it has been there for so long that it has become natural. He reaches the second to last step and she is there, waiting for him. Allison reaches out her hand.

                There is nothing bloody about Allison. She is always pretty and fresh and clean and as pure as she was the day they met. She smiles at him sweetly when he takes her hand and together they walk through a series of corridors that are lined with coffins. “Do you remember when Scott confused Bestiary with Bestiality?” she asks, giggling.

                Stiles nods and gives back a memory of his own. “Or how all of his passwords were your name?”

                They go back and forth like this for a while and Stiles can’t even savor it because it’s actually the worst part of the dream. Because he knows what is coming next.

                They come to the room with the Nemeton Room and for once, Stiles is taken by surprise. Because it is not the nogitsune waiting with a gun. It is not the nogitsune wearing Stiles’s face that forces him to kill Allison. Instead, she kisses his cheek and gives him her crossbow. “What do I do with this?” he asks.

                “I’m teaching you to shoot it,” she says. And there’s no one else there, so Stiles lets her teach him how to hold it and help him aim. He lets her coax him into pulling the trigger.

                There is a gasp that is too familiar and Stiles screams and throws it down. “No!” He drops to his knees, tries to staunch the blood flowing from Derek’s neck, but there’s too much and it’s too little, too late.

                “This is what happens when you love someone,” Allison tells him. She puts her hand on his shoulder and for a second, Stiles is reminded of Kate Argent. “You destroy it because you cannot be the only thing that is broken. Misery loves company. But Stiles,” she leans down to whisper in his ear, “nobody wants a broken toy.”

                Stiles wakes up screaming.


	11. Addicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once you get a taste, it's hard to quit.

                Derek doesn’t get used to having Stiles back. He stuffs the toy box in an unused space in the loft; tucks it away and tries to forget it. But his sheets still smell like Stiles and his area rug still smells like Stiles and he’s got a car seat that’s now absolutely useless.

                Scott is delighted to have Stiles back. He loves being a big brother, but he also just loves Stiles. In any form. Scott is Stiles’s number one fan. Allison is also pleased. Lydia’s life has gone back to normal and she’s content with that. Isaac even seems a little glad, though he’s never been exactly close with Stiles. Kira smiles at him and says hello. Danny pretends to be disgruntled, but is obviously enjoying having Stiles back in his natural form. Melissa and John lecture him regularly on reckless use of magic.

                Derek is not as pleased.

                Stiles no longer needs him. Derek has ceased to be a necessity in Stiles’s life. He isn’t babysitting him or guarding him anymore. He isn’t taking care of Stiles round the clock. They aren’t sleeping in his bed after he reads him bedtime stories. Stiles isn’t climbing him like a tree trying to get his attention anymore. He does not need Derek to make him sandwiches or macaroni and cheese. He does not need Derek to smother him in affection because he is so far from tactile that it’s like navigating a mine field to get by him in a hallway now.

                Derek can understand that. Stiles is dealing with a lot and Derek is _not_ going to blame him. Doesn’t blame him even a tiny bit. Derek’s been there. He knows. Derek had gotten used to touching Stiles all the time, though, and after months of constant contact, Derek’s head is reeling from the sudden cut off.

                It’s like quitting drugs, but worse.

 

* * *

                Stiles doesn’t get used to being back.    

                The thing that no one seems to think of asking, that no one considers a factor, is that Stiles _remembers_. He remembers being four years old. Not clearly, granted. Like a fuzzy memory or a dream. But he does remember. He knows the rabbit puppet came from Derek and that Lydia bought him designer clothes so she could be willing to be seen in public with him. He remembers getting a warm apple cider-esque drink at Starbucks whenever Lydia picked him up and playing with toys on Derek’s floor. He remembers Derek babysitting him. He remembers Scott being his older brother figure and Allison cuddling him.

                He remembers Derek cuddling him, which is weird.        

                Not a bad weird. Not by a long shot. In fact, it’s one of his favorite memories. It’s the memory he uses to anchor himself when he feels like he can’t breathe because _ohgodsomeonetouchedhimandwhatiftheydienowtheytouchedhimitisallhisfault_. He thinks about Derek and the way it felt to be held by the person he’s sort of accidentally fallen for and to be enveloped in their arms and feel safe and loved. He thinks about those things a lot, actually.

                It feels a little perverted to daydream about being held in that form by Derek, but being a disproportional size inside the cuddle is the only cuddle Stiles has to go off of, so he daydreams about it. When he wakes up from nightmares, which is not every night but most nights, he uses that memory to soothe his racing mind.

                Stiles made the switch for a reason. Granted, he didn’t expect that whole fairy loophole of “We took the life you _lived_ , not your life. All life is precious and sacred, but memories are worth more than gold.” He did trade his life for a reason, though. Not just because he thought everyone needed Allison more than him and certainly not as a way to redeem himself. He did it because he wanted _out_. Out of this body, out of this mind, out of the place where he did so much evil. Where the thing wearing his skin caused so much pain. Stiles is tired of remembering being worn like a ragged prom dress.

                He thinks about Derek because it’s the drug that keeps his heart calm the way his pills keep his brain calm. Because sometimes he still dreams about putting a bullet through Derek’s neck and his heart will never forgive him for that, so this is the best he’s ever going to get.

                Nobody wants a broken toy. Least of all, Derek.

               


	12. In the Arms of Pure Diamond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something to ease the way.  
> Stiles seeks comfort from the only person who doesn't look at him like he's broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy it. This is possibly the only fluff you're going to get anytime soon.

                Scott drops him off because Stiles isn’t allowed to drive himself anywhere right now. Which is sort of fair, considering last time he sold his life to fairies and wound up four years old until almost Halloween.

                Things aren’t the way they were before. Scott has taken a more protect role with Stiles, now, because he’s realizing that Stiles isn’t as okay as he pretends to be. Now Scott says “Allison” less and asks about how Stiles is doing more. He leaves room for Stiles to ramble and hangs on every word like it might be Stiles’s last.

                It’s driving Stiles up the walls.

                Scott drops him off outside the loft and it’s the first time Stiles considers Derek might not actually be there. “He’s there,” Scott says, reading Stiles’s expression. “Text me if you need a ride back.” He rolls up the window, but waits until Stiles is in the building for more than a minute before pulling away. Then he sits at the street corner for another five minutes, just to be sure.

                By the time Scott pulls away and actually _goes home_ (or, really, goes to Allison’s place) Stiles is upstairs and his fist is hovering, poised ready to knock on the door. Derek, blessed angel of serenity that he is choosing to be today, does not open the door before Stiles knocks. He does wrench it open after the first tap, though, like he’s been standing there waiting for Stiles to be ready.

                He doesn’t say anything. He just steps aside and lets Stiles in.

                The loft is changing. Slowly, but surely, it is turning into more of a home. The blown out wall looks stabilized and even like it was done on purpose. There are area rugs in all the usual living spaces. The bathroom has a toothbrush holder, though Child-Stiles’s toothbrush is gone from it. There is a friendlier atmosphere, even though the changes are small. It looks more livable.

                Stiles doesn’t sit, but Derek does. He leans back on the sofa and watches Stiles pace. It’s soothing, in a way. He goes back and forth in a route motion. As a toddler, he played with cars the same way; crawling from one spot to another and back repetitively. He paces; it’s his thing. Derek doesn’t comment on it. He just follows Stiles with his eyes and waits.

                “I miss you reading to me,” Stiles says. Derek’s eyes widen. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this. Stiles continues before he chokes. “I remember you giving me the rabbit puppet and guarding me and babysitting me and…making me dinner and working at that table while I colored by your feet. Stiles points to Derek’s work table. Derek barely spares it a glance in his quest to drink in Stiles’s every motion. “And I know it was just…like…some sort of _thing_ because I was a kid and you used to be a big brother and whatever and you knew how to take care of kids, but it was the most loved I think I’ve ever felt and I know it wasn’t real but everyone else is driving me crazy looking at me like I’m going to combust so for five minutes can we pretend it was real and you care about me enough to let me sit here quietly and not kick me out?”

                It sounds desperate. Stiles knows it sounds desperate and is out of reasons to care.

                “Who says I don’t care about you?” Derek asks. Stiles freezes and transforms into a deer caught in headlights. Derek pauses. “I liked reading to you and playing with you. I…Stiles, I bought you a toy box for _my apartment._ And a car seat for my own car. I shared my bed with you even though you’re a bratty bed hog who won’t sleep unless I’ve read the same storybook eight times…” Derek stops again and looks a little lost for words. “I didn’t…love you…at first. And I didn’t love you because you were a kid. I just did it because you were pack. But not having you…” Derek sighs heavily, looking pained. Stiles realizes it’s the most he’s ever heard Derek say to him while he’s Teen-Stiles. “Not having you as _you_ made me realize how much I like having _you_ in my life. As yourself. Not as a four year old.”

                Stiles smiles faintly. “So I can stay here for a while?”

                Derek doesn’t smile back, but his eyes are gentle. “You can do whatever you’d like.”

                Stiles chuckles grimly because what he’d _like_ to do is be enveloped in Derek’s arms for eternity and maybe have Derek’s tongue down his throat. That’s something he would like for sure.           

                “What?” Derek asks.

                Stiles shakes his head, but he forgot his meds this morning so he runs his mouth anyway. “You shouldn’t offer that. I’ll probably climb on top of you.” He clamps his mouth shut, burning scarlet. “Er-sorry, god sorry, I-”

                Derek adjusts so his lap is actually a place that can substantially hold Stiles. “Come here,” he says.

                Stiles is on him in seconds. He presses his face to Derek’s neck and just breathes. That’s all he does: breathes. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’s back and _oh_. All of the tension he’s been carrying floats away because Stiles actually feels safe, finally. It turns out, cuddling with the one person he is absolutely sure he’s incapable of hurting outside of his nightmares is a soothing thing. “Can you do that growl thing?” Stiles asks.

                Derek rolls his eyes fondly, but his chest does rumble and it changes the way his heartbeat sounds. Stiles counts based off that change and tries to slow his breathing to match Derek’s. It’s the calmest he’s been since he turned back into himself.

                But if he stays here forever, he’s going to say something stupid. So Stiles disentangles himself from Derek and says, “Thanks, but I should go.”

                Derek quirks an eyebrow. “Everything all right?”

                “Yeah,” Stiles says too quickly. _Except I’m sort of falling in love with you and I can’t really deal with that right now._

                “You think I don’t feel anything?”

                Stiles squeaks, realizing what he’d just said _out loud_. “I-”

                “Stiles,” Derek says and it’s all he has to say.

                “Can I kiss you?” Stiles asks.

                Derek nods.


	13. Just a Kiss Goodnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries, but it's not something he's ready for. Derek doesn't blame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have problems with almost sexy times, skip this chapter. Trigger warning for a discussion about consent and rape victims.

                Derek’s mouth taste like honey and candy. Stiles isn’t sure what kind. Almost like the too-sweet aftertaste of peppermint rounds. Stiles knows this because Derek’s tongue is intermingling with his own.

                Derek’s hands don’t move at first. He keeps them obediently by his sides. Then Stiles physically moves them to his own hips and starts backing Derek towards the sofa. Derek takes control at that point and _wow, okay, so this is what it’s like to be kissed while a guy carries you to the couch to defile you._ Stiles’s head is spinning.

                “How far will you let this go?” Stiles asks into Derek’s mouth.

                “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Derek promises, and Stiles moans. He tugs his shirt off and pulls at Derek’s until the Henley is tossed on the coffee table.

                Stiles is sitting on the couch with Derek kneeling between his legs and _god_. His head is reeling. Derek rubs Stiles’s legs and kisses his neck and Stiles decides that he’s going to send a thank you card and a fruit basket full of flavored condoms to whoever taught Derek his tricks. Unless it’s Jennifer or Kate. Then he’ll send them a grenade with the pin removed but with _Thanks_ written on the side.

                Wherever that train of thought is going, it stops when Derek’s hand goes to the waist of Stiles’s jeans. “Is this okay?” he asks.

                Stiles nods because _dude, yes, of course that’s okay_. He’s a teenager, for crying out loud. Of course he wants a veritable Adonis like Derek unbuttoning his pants. Derek pulls his jeans over his hips and while he’s kissing Stiles’s stomach and hips, he somehow gets Stiles’s boxers off, too.

                He tugs Stiles forward so his entire bottom half is well exposed. Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’s cock and gives it a few languid pulls. Stiles pants quietly above him. Derek’s other hand cups Stiles’s ass cheeks and one of his fingers brushes against his hole. Stiles seizes up and Derek pulls back. “What’s wrong?” he asks immediately.

                “Nothing,” Stiles insists. “I just…that’s sort of uncharted territory.”

                Derek drinks in the sight of him and says, “Can I try something?”

                Stiles nods hesitantly. Derek bends back down and sucks Stiles’s dick into his mouth. Stiles lets out a tiny whimper as Derek wraps his hand around the base and starts moving that as well. It’s a lot of sensation and Stiles adapts to it quickly enough that when Derek’s tongue takes a hesitant pitstop in kissing his thighs to nudge at his asshole, he doesn’t even flinch. Derek takes this as a green light and soon he’s got Stiles panting above him. His finger comes near his hips again and Stiles adjusts to allow it.

                The tip of Derek’s finger slides into him and it actually feels okay. It’s foreign, but not inherently bad either. At the first knuckle, Stiles freezes. “Derek, stop!” he cries.

                Derek is across the room in less than a second, giving Stiles a personal space bubble big enough for ten bubbles. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

                Stiles scrambles for his boxers and shirt, feeling exposed. “I thought-but I can’t-I mean-” he stutters. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-”

                “Stiles.” Derek’s voice is soft and sweet. “Don’t apologize. That was my bad. I let that go way too far. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

                Stiles shakes his head. “I wanted it. I _liked_ it and I _really like you_. But the nogitsune…and everything I’ve done…and there was something else inside me that _wasn’t me_ and…” He finishes getting dressed and covers his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have asked you to _take care of me._ I mean, why would you want to? Nobody wants a broken toy.” He shudders as he echoes the words from his nightmares. From the shtriga. From the nogitsune.

                “ _Stiles._ ” Derek sounds angry now and Stiles looks up fearfully. Derek is still several paces away, but he’s close enough that Stiles can see that he’s seething. “Who told you that? Who said that to you?”

                “He did,” Stiles says. “And it’s true.”

                “It’s not,” Derek says. “Stiles, you’re one of the strongest people I know. I’m sorry about all of this. I let myself think you were okay but you’re _not_.” He gestures to the far end of the couch. “Can I sit?” Stiles nods and Derek sits as far from Stiles as he can and faces him. “Stiles, you realize you’re essentially a rape victim, right? He took advantage of you in ways that no one should have happen. You didn’t consent to it, you didn’t want it, and he lingered in a way you feel like you can’t get out of you. Right?” Stiles nods warily. “So how is that any different from any other form of assault? Why would that make you any less. Would you say a woman who was raped and needed counseling was broken? Would you say it was her fault?” Stiles shakes his head adamantly and opens his mouth to ask Derek _who the hell he thinks Stiles is that he’d ever accuse a rape victim of being at fault?_ “Then why would you blame yourself?” Derek asks.

                “It’s not the same,” Stiles says.

                “It is,” Derek insists. “And I pushed you way too far today. And that was wrong.”

                “I trust you,” Stiles says, trying to make sense of his feelings. “I don’t trust _me_. I don’t want to hurt you.”

                “I trust you,” Derek tells him and Stiles can’t find a single hint of doubt in Derek’s voice. “And if you still want this, then we’ll take it slow. Way slow. Snails are faster than the pace we’ll take.” Stiles cracks a hint of a smile. “For now, can we try something fully clothed?” Stiles nods and Derek scoots closer. “Can I…?” He gestures and Stiles leans into him slowly until Derek drops his arm around Stiles’s shoulders.

                He’s dozing off, later on, and Derek scoops him up off the sofa and brings him to the bed. He lays Stiles down and lets Stiles cuddle up to him and use him as a pillow. He makes a soft rumbling sound low in his chest and Stiles falls asleep counting the skips in his heartbeat.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about trying to justify this chapter, but I don't have to. It's based roughly off of one of my own personal experiences combined with an experience my friend had and is about as close as this story will get to a sexual encounter. Which is totally fair. Stiles isn't ready to jump into situations like that, which is why I deny he was ever with Malia. The nogitsune maybe influenced him to be, but Stiles wouldn't have done that and I can give you eight reasons why if you'd like. But I thought this was more accurate for how he would feel anyways because it's based on the experiences of victims of past sexual assault.


	14. Fair Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loose ends are tied up. Stiles contemplates the changes.

                Later that evening, Stiles realizes that being a teenager again means caring about his morning breath. He gets up and uses Derek’s bathroom and steals some of his Listerine to rinse his mouth with and then joins Derek in bed again. There are no missed calls and only one text, which is from Scott asking if Derek can take him home because Scott is bringing his mom dinner at the hospital and visiting Danny, who is at home but still recovering.

                Stiles answers that it won’t be a problem and checks in with his dad to let him know that he’s okay and then rejoins Derek under the blankets. Derek is awake by now, but he stays still and lets Stiles spoon with him while Stiles contemplates life.       

                Scott’s overprotective mother hen mode will fade, Stiles knows. He will settle back into life with Allison and there’s no way that anything will break those two apart after what they’ve been through. He barely remembers any encounters between Isaac and Allison during his time as Child-Stiles, but he can only assume they’ve settled their differences. Kira must have coped with losing Scott, too, because Stiles is starting to see her around occasionally. Peter has Malia, which is weird and Stiles would sort of like to know what the hell the man who raised her thinks happened to her. And he also worries about Peter, manipulative and creepy bastard that he is, raising a child. But at least with Peter in charge, Malia will grow up knowing how to control the shift.

                Obviously, many things with Derek have changed. Stiles tries to sort through these things and fails. What can he say about Derek that makes any lick of sense? That he’s sort of falling in love with someone who went out of their way for a child when there was really nothing to gain? That he likes having Derek’s arms around him? That he doesn’t even mind Derek’s morning breath because dealing with it means staying in his arms a little bit longer? That what happened with Derek was _hot-hot-hot_ , but Stiles just isn’t ready for it and he likes that Derek is okay with that, even though Derek knows it will probably be a _very_ long time before Stiles is ready? There’s too much to say and even Stiles, who is known for his use of language to conquer his enemies, does not have enough words to say it all.

                His dad gained something from having him back as a kid. Stiles doesn’t know what. It wasn’t relief from getting his baby back to a baby. It ran deeper. Stiles thinks it might be that having a kid who relied on him constantly gave his dad something to anchor himself to. Melissa definitely gained just from getting to let out all of her maternal instincts at him since Scott is a freaking _werewolf_.

                Stiles isn’t sure what he’s gained. He’s gained Derek. He’s gained a room that looks nothing like it did when he was body-snatched. He’s gained a Pack that’s stronger and closer for having had a child to care for. He’s gained several online classes so he can graduate on time with Scott. He’s gained _Derek_ (which he really feels is most important.)

                And Lydia?

                Stiles doesn’t want to think about Lydia.

                A few days after the ritual that gave him his life and age back, Stiles had visited Lydia. They hung out in her room and Lydia shopped through her closet for an outfit for dinner with her mother. They chatted about nothing in particular until finally, Stiles said, “Thanks. For changing me back, I mean. Thanks for being the one to do it.”

                She shrugs. “Of course. We’re friends.”

                “What did they make you trade?” Stiles had asked, because he felt like it was something that _someone_ should ask her. “Was it Aidan?”

                Lydia shook her head. “I didn’t really love him,” she said. “I liked him. A lot. But I didn’t love Aidan. It must have been someone from my childhood.”

                _Must have been_. Dread had settled into Stiles’s stomach. Whoever she had lost, she had lost the memories, too. A childhood friend was gone forever. “At least it wasn’t one of us,” he said jokingly.

                Lydia rolled her eyes: the closest she would allow to laughter for something that ridiculous. “Of course not,” she said. “I could never forget you. You’re going to escort me to prom, after all. It’s not like there’s anyone else worthy in school, right now.”

                “Good to know I’m finally a fair replacement for Jackson,” Stiles said.

                Lydia smiled at him, puzzled. “Jackson? Who’s Jackson?”

* * *

 

                Derek finally nudges him as the moon starts to show through the window. “Hungry?” he asks.

                Stiles nods but refuses to budge. “Can I stay here?” he asks. “It’s warm.”

                Derek rolls his eyes as he gets out of the bed. “I’ll order something. You can stay there until it gets here.”

                They eat takeout on the sofa because Stiles claims clichés are romantic. He spends the night and they use Derek’s laptop to watch movies until Stiles falls asleep. In the morning, Derek drives him home and Stiles makes a point of letting Derek up to his room long enough to see that the rabbit puppet is on his bedside table.

                The next time John asks, “Son?” Stiles just nods steadily and takes a deep breath, imagining the way Derek’s heartbeat changes when he growls.

Then he answers. “I’m going to be okay.


	15. Among the Sticks and Leaves They Find Him (Pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue, which is not necessary to have the story end. This is my ending the way I want it. The story can stand alone without this.  
> Stiles has to make a choice. Derek makes it with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just because I had this idea and wanted to leave it open in case I decide to play around with it. It’s not *REALLY* part of the story, it’s just something I wanted to do. If you liked it the way it was, don’t read this. If you think you might be interested, by all means please continue. But I know a lot of people won’t dig this part and that’s okay because I didn’t write it for the story. I wrote it for me. I didn’t feel I’d said everything I had to say yet. So here’s what’s left, if you so choose to read it.  
> If you don't read it and you choose to hit the back button, then thank you so much for going on this journey with me. It was really fun to write and it made me happy to see that this story made other people happy. Thank you to every reader, every person who gave it kudos, every person who bookmarked it, every person who thought 'hey I'll check this out' and gave it hits, and especially to every person who took the time to review it. Every single one of you rocks and I really appreciate that you took the time to read my work. Thank you so much, each and every one of you. xoxo-Armygirl0604 (And CM because he's very helpful)

This time, Scott drives him into the woods. On the way, they talk about all the things they did together growing up. All the stunts they’ve pulled and all the things that have made their friendship great.

All the things Scott will miss about Stiles. All the things Stiles won’t remember.

                Scott, to his credit, doesn’t cry. He doesn’t fight Stiles or try to talk him out of what he’s decided to do. He drives him to the woods in the jeep just one last time and on the way, they grab Monsters and bad tacos and reminisce. Last night, they spent the night playing video games until dawn and talking and watching their favorite movies and having their favorite arguments. They lived the rest of their teen years in one single night.

                Lydia isn’t speaking to him on the principle of having to find a new prom date. Jokingly, Stiles volunteers Isaac. Not jokingly, Lydia accepts.

                This time they are better prepared. They have perfect documents claiming that Stiles is the Sheriff’s nephew, whom he has permanently adopted. They have evidence showing that the ‘real Stiles’ has gone away to study abroad and get his bearings after being through a great deal of emotional trauma and then “being kidnapped” for several months. They say he’s gone to stay with family in Poland. Everyone who isn’t in the know buys it. They even throw Stiles a going away party, which Stiles finds both ironic and touching as well as vapidly annoying.

                On the way to the forest, Stiles sings at the top of his lungs. For once, Scott sings with him with no shame. They’re cranking the stereo and yelling their hearts out because it will be the last time.

                Stiles handed over all of his research to Lydia. He wrote down everything he had stored in his brain. He imparted all of his knowledge on the one person he finds brilliant enough to put together the pieces he left behind.

                Derek didn’t have an opinion. He just nodded grimly and accepted it.

                At the edge of the forest, Scott says, “I’m going to miss you, man.”

                Stiles hugs him and it’s the longest hug they’ve ever shared. “Consider it a gift,” he says. “You get to experience the glory that is me all over again in high definition. This time, you’ve got werewolf senses. That should make me, like, eight times more glorious than I already was.” Scott laughs, but it sounds wet so Stiles lets go and says, “Meet me at the end?”

                “Of course.” Scott jerks his thumb at the jeep and Stiles is reminded that there is a car seat waiting in the back.

                Stiles nods awkwardly and shoulders his backpack, which has everything he needs to call the fairies back to his circle. “See you on the other side,” he says because it’s the only opportunity he will ever have to say that.

                Scott, because it is his last chance to do so, flips him the bird.

                “I expect cool older brotherly love!” Stiles shouts as he backs toward the clearing. “Playing catch and wrestling and you telling me scary stories that will make sure I don’t sleep for a year.”

                Scott waves to acknowledge that he heard him, but doesn’t turn around because he promised Stiles that he wouldn’t cry and he doesn’t want Stiles to know that he broke his last promise.

                Stiles finds the clearing with ease and sets up his circle. He’s putting the last stone that will mark its perimeter in place when Derek hops over him and into the cast circle. He has a grocery bag in his hand and he sets it next to Stiles’s by the tree in the center of the circle. “Derek, what are you doing?” he asks warily. Because he will fight Derek if he has to. He will lose, but he’ll just sneak out and do this again. And again. As many times as it takes. “We talked about this. I can’t keep doing it. I’m not…I can’t live in the skin that he had. I can’t do this. We talked about it.”

                “I know,” Derek says. “But we never talked about what I wanted.”

                “Which is?” Stiles asks, backing away in case he has to make a run for it.

                Derek steps forward and catches Stiles’s hands in his before he can run. So much for escaping. “To be with you,” Derek says.

                It dawns on Stiles what must be in his bag. “Your job,” Stiles says. “Your life.”

                Derek shrugs. “I’ll make a new life. And this time, Kate Argent won’t fuck it up because I’ll have you there to make every moment count.”

                Stiles finds that he doesn’t mind that. “I guess summoning Laura or Paige to be with you will be useless, then?”

                Derek’s expression shifts slightly as if he isn’t sure what to make of the news that Stiles was looking out for him. “Paige is at peace,” he says. “And Laura…” He shakes his head. “There’s still nothing for her to come back to. Caring for a kid and thrown into a world she’s been out of for two years? It wouldn’t be fair. My mother, though.” Derek’s lips twitch. “I have no problem putting that burden on her. Especially since she approved it.”

                “You talked to her?” Stiles’s eyes widen.

                Derek nods. “With her claws. Last night.”

                Stiles realizes that this has been his plan all along. “You bastard, you let me say goodbye!” He whacks Derek’s arm playfully.

                Derek grins. “It was for a good cause. You say such sweet things when you think it’s your last chance to say them.”

                Stiles calls him a bastard again and turns away to strip out of his clothes. He calls the fairies and this time, he recognizes them. “Hello,” he says. He doesn’t tell them why he’s there. They already know.

                _It’s meant to be a one time deal_ , their elder says, amused. _You cannot exchange the life we give you._

                “But I’m not,” Stiles argues. “I got my real life back. So technically, it erases the last deal.”

                _We liked his memories,_ one of the youngest says. It’s the only one whose leaves are not willow or Oak. This one has mountain ash leaves and it steps away from Derek with a displeased frown. _But a werewolf is something different._

                _We can make a deal with the wolf just as easily,_ their eldest says. It peers at Derek, its leaves rustling as its oaken face studies him. _He wants to give up more years anyways._ It smiles and the smile is a gaping hole in its wood instead of a real smile. _To be the same age as his lover._

                “Do we have a deal?” Stiles asks, because he feels that time is of the essence in this bargain.

                Their eldest nods. _Speak the names of your bargains_ , it says, _and we shall consider this transaction a permanent one. No more trading or changes. We are through in this dealing._

                “Deal,” Stiles says and he nods to Derek. “Tell them who you’re trading for.”

                “Talia Hale, Alpha of the Hale Pack, killed in a fire started by Kate Argent.” Derek’s voice doesn’t waver. He goes to stand at the edge of cliff, ready to jump and take a literal fall into his new life.

                The fairies seem to hold their breath as Stiles goes to join him. Just before jumping, he takes Derek’s hand. He wants to end this life with his fingers intertwined with his lovers and start his next life the same way. “Claudia Stilinski,” he says and then he jumps.

               


End file.
